THE battered old
dredger 'Penrose Bay' eased alongside the jetty at Dover Harbour. She
had just returned with a most precious cargo, about sixty servicemen,
lifted from the bloody, smoke ridden beaches of war-torn Dunkirk.

Once the butt of many a
joke in the dockside taverns around Pompey, this rusting old
flat-bottomed tub now took centre stage alongside a Frigate, two
Destroyers and a host of other smaller naval craft and pleasure
boats. This had been its finest hour!

Sergeant Tom Evans
grasped at a corroded handrail on its top deck and scanned the
waiting crowds on the quayside for familiar faces. After more than
two years of military service in France with the outflanked British
Expeditionary Force, and thankful to escape from the rapid advance of
the German invasion, Royal Engineer Evans was practically back in
England again.

His face became
contorted though at the prospect of a reunion with his family. The
last few days had been a nightmare, facing a desperate rear-guard
action, he had become detached from his own unit and was posted
'missing.' Tom worried in case his parents had received that dreaded
telegram and remembered, that as an arrogant 19-year old, he had
refused their advice. He recalled the rows and bickering and had been
glad to join-up in that glorious autumn of '39. Most of what his
parents had told him was true. War was certainly no fun! His father
knew. He had been wounded and evacuated from the Somme in 1916. Tom
too had now seen action in France. He too witnessed the horrors of
close conflict and had seen friends killed and wounded.

Tom had waited nearly
two days for transport off that horrendous beach. He waded more than
half-a-mile out into those freezing shallow but swirling waters with
colleagues to find a ship, joining a never-ending human pier of hope.
He tried to help others, but injuries and exhaustion took their toll.
He couldn't even remember the 'Penrose Bay' arriving. He remembered
seeing a ship but the constant bombing, strafing and hours of waiting
had confused his already exhausted mind and body. He kept hearing
voices and thought someone had once shouted HIS name. The smoke was
now thick and acrid. He recalled someone finally pulling him from the
water and onto that cold steel decking. All the way home, he suffered
from flashbacks. His body trembled with the sounds of war. As his
mind drifted again, Tom could suddenly hear the sounds of a band
playing, and saw a group of young men in bright blue tunics playing a
Vera Lynn number. There was a large banner' stating Welcome Home'
draped from a warehouse roof. He instinctively covered his ears. He
knew he was safe, but as he closed his heavy eyelids, he could still
hear the shells falling and the constant rat-a-tat of machine guns.
His grip tightened as the men on the deck suddenly surged forward in
their eagerness to disembark. He felt his weakened body wince as his
ribs crushed against the protective bulkhead. 'Watch out there!' he
bellowed. 'Sorry Sarge,' replied one of the men. Tom Evans was a
small, wiry character. As a teenager he believed he could take on the
world and once, in 1934, claimed the East London 100-yards
championship. Not any more! It took all his strength just to grip
that rail and maintain his vantage point.